


We're Never Worth Our Fears

by waitingforjudas



Series: Judas' Kinktober 2019 [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Boot Worship, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Butt Plugs, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek was in the military, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Lapdance, M/M, Military Backstory, Power Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Scars, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Stripper Stiles Stilinski, Top Derek Hale, i think thats the closest descriptor, lets get real stiles is totally a fucking power bottom, so does Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 19:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforjudas/pseuds/waitingforjudas
Summary: Derek’s finished his last tour of duty, and now he just wants to relax, even for a night. But the thing is—he’s covered in scars. Nobody would want him unless they were getting paid, so he might as well try to find a legal way to take a break without getting laughed out of somebody’s bedroom.Strip club it is.Written for Kinktober 2019 prompts: Boot Worship, Lap Dances, and Scars.





	We're Never Worth Our Fears

**Author's Note:**

> I did some research and did my best to write this as respectfully as possible, but I could have said something insensitive—please don't hesitate to inform me, because, as always, the last thing I want to do with fanfiction is hurt somebody. 
> 
> This is October 17’s installment of Kinktober because, surprise, surprise, I got sick! Again! I've got the first part of October 16’s drafted, and I’ll be working on October 16, 18, and 19 today (10/18) and tomorrow (10/19). Hopefully, those’ll all be up soon. 
> 
> If you’re wondering, "Hey, why is this motherfucker always talking about being sick? Nobody’s sick that often!" then boy howdy are you going to love learning about something called _chronic illness._
> 
>   
_Written for Kinktober 2019. Prompt list can be found at https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872._

Derek adjusted his jeans for the third time. They were one of the looser, more comfortable pairs that he owned, but he was pretty sure he remembered reading an article—well, it was more of a clickbait post on a fake news site—that, whenever going to a strip club, the dress code was either slacks or sweatpants. 

Derek lived in sweatpants these days, though. And the only pair of slacks he had, he’d gotten rid of. He was a former US Marine—it wasn’t like he needed to have various suits and tuxedos. His uniform did the trick. 

So jeans it was, then. 

He didn’t dare look in a mirror, though. He’d lose all of his nerve if he did. 

Boyd had been supportive about it, getting rid of all the mirrors in his house. Erica had pitched a fit, saying he was moving backward in his recovery, but Boyd had stepped in. 

Boyd’s main argument, though, had hinged on the fact that Derek, considered a retired officer because of his injuries, hadn’t left the house without wearing his uniform for well over a month, and if taking down the mirrors made him feel comfortable not wearing it even to the mailbox—as a warning, honestly; _if you stare at me, you’re disrespecting somebody who fought for your freedom_—then that should be a good thing. 

Erica hadn’t helped, though. 

His palms were sweating, and he tugged his sweater down, rolling down the sleeves all the way. In the house, it was easier to dress for comfort, but he was hideous. If he left the house and people could see what he looked like—

Maybe this was stupid. He could be celibate. It would be fine; it wasn’t like he needed to seek some kind of sexual gratification in order to relax. 

Isaac had recommended the place to him, though. Apparently, his boyfriend’s best friend worked there, and if he asked for a “Styles,” he’d be guaranteed zero judgment. 

It had been months since he’d left the house for anything other than a necessity, though. It could help. 

Or he could be a complete idiot. 

Derek grabbed his keys, his phone, and his wallet, stuffed with cash in various bills—most of them fifties and hundreds—and left before he could think better of it. 

###

Derek grabbed the baseball cap out of his glove compartment and pulled it low on his head. He looked like he was planning on robbing the place or killing somebody, but—whatever. He could do this. It’d be fine. 

He eyed the place, glancing at the exits. He was wearing good, solid boots in case he needed to bolt on-foot, and as long as he could identify two exits and—

The odds of getting attacked in a strip club were low. He knew that. 

It was fine. He just needed to go. 

He double-checked his wallet, texted Isaac that he was going through with it, and turned off his car. 

It’d be fine. 

“Hi,” Derek said, twitching as the bouncer looked at him. 

“ID?”

Derek pulled it out and adjusted his hat. “Is there a cover charge?”

“Not for veterans.” The bouncer opened the door. “Three drink minimum.”

He nodded and stepped inside. 

It was… loud. 

He turned abruptly, and the bouncer looked to him. “Yeah?”

“I, um—my friend told me I should ask for a particular— Well, I don’t know if it’s a—a person or a codeword or—”

“Styles?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s on the stage at the moment, but he should make rounds later. He’ll take care of you.”

With that, the door closed, and Derek swallowed, pulling his cap down further. 

He sat down at the bar, pulling out a fifty. 

“What can I get you?” The bartender grinned at him. His jaw was crooked, but it was the kind of appearance “flaw” that only made somebody look interesting. It caught attention. 

Derek caught attention, too. 

Derek shrugged. “Three of, uh. Anything. Whatever’s left is your tip.”

“Thanks!” the guy said. “I’ll make you something good, promise.”

Derek nodded, drumming his fingers on the bar top as the man took the cash and started pulling down various bottles of alcohol. 

He glanced over to the stage and nearly choked on his tongue. 

Well. 

This was definitely a strip club. 

The man on stage was dancing and writhing around, swinging on a pole and then climbing it—then wrapping his legs around it, taking his arms off, and bending backward until he was in a handstand, one leg to the side, one foot resting on the pole, and shaking his ass. 

_Big, big booty, what you got a big booty!_

He didn’t have an especially big ass, but—

“Here,” the bartender said, and Derek jumped, knocking off his baseball hat as he jerked it up instinctively so he could see the threat—clearly. 

_Shit._

“Sorry—shit—” Derek turned, grabbing the hat and pulling it back on. “Sorry. Thanks.”

“Of course,” the bartender said, but he sounded weird. 

He’d seen Derek’s scars. 

Derek flushed, pulling out his wallet and another fifty. “Sorry.” 

“Hey,” the bartender said, and Derek made a questioning noise but kept his gaze focused on the table. “Dude. That’s a big tip for a thirty dollar tab.”

The music ended, and Derek shrugged. 

“You’re looking for Styles, right?” the bartender asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, dude, I can’t talk to you if you’re talking to the drinks. Hey, Styles!”

Derek’s eyes went wide, and he froze. 

“Hey, Scotty,” the man who must have been Styles said. “I was about to make rounds, is there—”

“I think somebody was looking for you.”

“Yeah? Who was it?” And then, a moment later, “Oh! Shit, sorry, hi.” A hand shoved its way under the brim of Derek’s hat. “Hi, I’m Styles.”

“Derek,” Derek said weakly. “Um. My friend said you wouldn’t, um. Um.”

Styles waited for him to finish, but then started talking again. “I don’t judge or exclude anyone except the basis of creepiness. And you don’t strike me as creepy, so. Lap dance?”

“Do you have a private room?” Derek had practiced it for the last forty-eight hours, the exact same sentence. It was the only thing that came out easily. 

“Yeah, sure. You know that’s gonna kind of be expensive, though, right?”

“I think I can afford it,” Derek said, trying not to smirk to himself a little. His family had had money, and a lot of it. 

And now Derek could while it away on luxuries he didn’t deserve. 

“Okay, cool. Awesome. Scotty, I’m gonna go to the— Wait, which private rooms are open?”

“Styles, you know I don’t keep track of that.”

“I know you _do_.”

A heavy sigh. “Pink Champagne and Salty Dog. But I swear to God, Styles, if you pick the S—”

“Salty Dog it is, then!” Styles offered Derek a hand and Derek blinked at it before quickly taking it. “See you, Scotty!” 

They walked in silence—well, except for the loud music and background conversation—to the Salty Dog. 

“Hey, Styles! You got a slot open tonight?” 

Styles laughed. “Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know, yeah?”

Derek tried not to tense up his grip. 

“Hey, you’ve got me for as long as you want me,” Styles said, leaning in close to Derek’s ear. 

Derek nodded jerkily. He doubted that Styles would feel the same way once his hat was off. 

“Here we are!” Styles announced, letting go of Derek’s hand to hold the door for him. “Okay, so don’t judge the decorations here, because _my_ favorite room is the Old Fashioned, but anything’s better than Pink Champagne, I swear.”

Derek glanced around. 

“You can take off your hat if you want,” Styles said. 

“I don’t—I don’t think I should.”

“Why?”

Derek hesitated. “I, um. I’m a retired Marine.”

“Retired, not just a veteran? You’re like—oh. Sorry. Injured in the line of duty, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so, like—something you should know about me? I really don’t care what you look like. I just want you to enjoy yourself, okay? ‘Cause this room is literally more than a thousand an hour, plus charges per song. Also, before you ask, I refuse to dance exclusively to American Pie just because it’s the first long song you can think of.”

Derek snorted despite himself, adjusting his hat. “I don’t think I’d ask you to do that. What’s the actual charge?”

“Oh—okay, sure, we can do it now. Probably better than what I usually do, so I won’t fault you for that. Okay, cool, it’s—also, I don’t set the prices—but I mean, I _respect_ the prices, and the club, ‘cause—”

“Styles.”

“It’s twelve hundred per hour, rounded up, and each dance is thirty. Well, forty, but—”

“Forty’s fine.”

“Out of curiosity,” Styles adjusted a set of curtains that looked frankly hideous, “how long were you planning to have me here?”

_Just do it, Derek. Get it over with. _

“Um, a—a friend recommended you,” Derek started hesitantly. 

“Ooh, who? What’s their name?”

“Isaac. Lahey. He said you were his boyfriend’s best friend.”

“Oh, and that’d make you— Oh! You’re Derek Hale, right? Super sexy, voice like Zac Efron, look like Batman?”

“More like the Joker,” Derek muttered. _Get it over with_. He took off his baseball cap and waited for Styles to turn around. 

“What?” Styles finished fussing with the pillows and turned. “_Dude_.”

Derek’s heart sank. “I’m— I apologize. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable or—I’ll just pay and I’ll head out and—”

Styles crossed the room and punched Derek’s arm, then winced. “Sorry, shouldn’t punch people. No, _dude_, you’re not the fucking Joker, and you’re not making me uncomfortable. I don’t know how to say this other than flat-out, but you’re hot.”

“Really,” Derek said doubtfully. It was probably a tactic to charm his clients into giving him more money, but—it didn’t _feel_ like it. 

“Hey, if it helps you at all, I’ve given lap dances to just about anybody you could think of. Ninety-year-old men—actually, the oldest guy I gave one to was ninety-eight—eighteen-year-old women, trans men packing for the first time, bachelors _and_ bachelorettes… dude, _everybody_. I don’t think that’s helping you, though— Okay, here’s the deal.”

Derek nodded. 

“Okay. If you want to go, you can. No harm, no foul, _or_—you can stay. For one dance, in a super sexy room called the _Salty Dog_, given to you by a super sexy guy, and I won’t even charge you for any of it. Consider it a thank-you.”

“For my service?”

“For your eyes. They’re gorgeous.”

Derek started, rearing back on his heels, but Styles stayed calm, motionless. “You’re serious,” Derek said slowly. 

Styles rolled his eyes. “Duh. It’s up to you, man, but I’d like it if you’d give it a shot.”

He nodded. “Okay. Sure, why not.”

Styles grinned, and Derek felt gutted. He could feel his jaw dropping, his lips parting, but he just stared at Styles. 

“Awesome,” Styles said. “Okay, do you have a song preference?”

“No.”

“Then sit down and _enjoy_,” Styles purred, and Derek just obeyed him. 

The opening notes of the song Styles put on seemed ridiculous, but then the bass came in, heavy and sultry, and—well, the lyrics were a little ridiculous, but Derek shivered nonetheless. 

Mostly because Styles was making piercing eye contact with him, stalking forward slowly, running his hands along his chest, his neck, his shoulders, down his hips, pulling his—

“Oh, fuck,” Derek whispered, breath leaving him in a rush. Somehow, he’d been so focused on everything else that he hadn’t realized that Styles was wearing nothing more than a pair of lacy red panties.

Styles grinned and set his hands on Derek’s shoulders, leaning in to murmur in his ear, “_Relax_.”

Derek wished he’d worn the sweatpants. 

But he didn’t have much time to berate himself because Styles was straddling his lap, lowering himself _almost_ to Derek’s thighs, to his cock straining against denim, and then pulling back, undulating his body in long rolls, and Derek stifled a groan. 

“So,” Styles said. “Tell me about your boots.”

“My—my boots?”

Styles shrugged, and then he actually made contact—brief, light—with Derek’s cock and Derek threw his head back, choking back a whimper. “I like boots,” he said. “Tell me about yours.”

“They’re—they’re boots,” Derek stuttered. “Um.”

“How long have you had them?” Styles prompted. 

“Four years.”

Styles dipped down again, and Derek’s mind ground to a halt. “That’s a while. Probably pretty worn.”

“I was thinking about getting a new pair.”

“Not holding up?”

“They are, it’s just—they’re not as stiff as I’d like them to be.” 

Like it was a reward, Styles ground his ass down _hard_ onto Derek’s cock and Derek couldn’t bite back the moan that came out unbidden. 

“Sorry,” Derek gasped, trying to catch his breath. 

“It’s kind of the point,” Styles said, and Derek could hear the smirk in his voice, but it didn’t seem mean. 

He nodded. “I’d assume. Um.”

Styles pulled away from Derek, looking him in the eyes. “Question for you.”

Derek blinked. “Go for it.”

“You can totally say no, because this is, of course, about _you_ and not me, but, uh. Anyway, I’ll just say it. Could I possibly… um….”

“Styles,” Derek said. 

“Worship your boots?” Styles flushed as red as his panties. “It’s literally just—I mean—I kind of have a thing for, well, veterans, and military officers, and also—”

“Okay.”

“—you know, _boots_, just ‘cause they’re all— Wait, what? Seriously?”

Derek nodded, shrugging a little. “If you want to.” 

Derek kind of wanted Styles to do it. He _wanted_ Styles to get down on his hands and knees and lick Derek’s boots until they were shiny, clean the soles with his mouth until his mouth was as grimy and dirty as Derek’s boots. 

“Okay, big guy,” Styles said. “Just tell me to stop and I will.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Styles grinned and slid off Derek’s lap, kneeling at Derek’s feet and licking his lips. “Shit,” Styles whispered, and Derek frowned, but Styles was already dipping his head down and dragging his tongue over Derek’s boot, one long lave, and then he pulled his tongue back into his mouth, moaning, and swallowed visibly. 

Derek’s cock twitched. It was just—the image of this gorgeous man on his knees, worshiping at Derek’s feet, it—

“_Fuck_,” Derek hissed, and Styles looked up, but not with a cocky grin—he looked _ruined_. 

Styles held Derek’s gaze as he lowered himself back down and lapped over Derek’s boot again. 

Derek gulped. “I— Shit, _Styles_.”

Styles just licked Derek’s boot and then latched his mouth onto some spot and _sucked_, like he was going to fucking give Derek’s fucking boot a fucking hickey and Derek really couldn’t be blamed for what he did next, could he?

His hand flew to his cock, squeezing hard as precome leaked out of his tip. He could feel it wetting his boxer briefs, and Styles _groaned_, like he was waiting for that, because he jumped to his feet, got onto Derek’s lap again, and kissed him, hard. 

Derek’s hands went to Styles’ hips, probably gripping too roughly, but Styles moaned, and Derek kissed him back, licking into Styles’ mouth, tasting the dirt left on his teeth, but it wasn’t disgusting like he would’ve thought. 

Styles rocked onto Derek’s cock harder and then he broke away, pulling back for a second. “Can I ride you?”

Derek was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. This couldn’t _possibly_ be real life. 

He nodded. “Please,” he bit out. 

Styles grinned, like he was almost relieved, and then he fucking unzipped Derek’s fly, pulled his cock through the opening, pulled his own panties to the side and pulled out—

“You were wearing a butt plug?” Derek asked, suddenly dizzy—his cock was turning reddish-purple, though, especially towards the head, thin precome leaking out in a constant, slow stream. 

“I thought it might be fun to try.” Styles shrugged. “I think I picked a good first day.”

And with that, Styles _sat. The fuck. Down._

Derek threw his head back, squeezing Styles’ hips, and Styles’ ass _convulsed_ around his cock and he groaned, long and startlingly loud. 

Styles shushed him, rocking forward to rub a hand over his beard. “You don’t want somebody coming in and seeing this, do you?” 

“No,” Derek said, but honestly? He kind of did. He kind of _liked_ the idea of somebody coming in and seeing him claiming Styles for his own. 

Not that—not that Styles was _his_—it wasn’t like Derek even knew his actual name. 

But then _every fucking thought_ left Derek’s mind, because Styles started rising and falling, tiny little thrusts, and that wasn’t even all of it—it was the _noises_ he was making. Soft whimpers, low keens, sharp, sudden grunts, long moans. 

Derek _itched_ to grab Styles’ hips and just fuck into him, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t dare. Styles couldn’t possibly want that, and this was enough for Derek. 

This was more than enough. 

It became a moot point a moment later, because Styles held on to Derek’s shoulders and just _bounced_ on Derek’s cock. 

“Styles—” Derek’s fingernails bit into Styles’ hips and he could _feel_ himself doing it, but he couldn’t stop it. “Styles, Styles, I’m— I can’t—”

“Come for me, Derek. Whenever you’re ready, okay?”

Derek nodded desperately, but he didn’t want to come yet. He didn’t want to end this and find out just how much this would cost him. He wanted just a few more seconds of believing that this was really because Styles wanted him, not his money. 

Styles took in a shaky breath and leaned forward, never breaking his rhythm, and kissed Derek and it didn’t—it didn’t feel fake. 

It didn’t feel fake. 

Derek pulled Styles closer to him and then he came, deep inside of Styles’ ass, and Styles kissed him harder for a moment but then he broke away, gasping, sucked in a breath and came, shooting his load all over Derek’s shirt, groaning, “_Derek_,” and Derek’s cock valiantly tried—and failed—to harden again, but Derek could, and did, pull Styles closer, covering his face in kisses as he gasped for air, spurting out one last rope of come before he fell, practically boneless, against Derek’s chest, shivering. 

His ass kept milking Derek’s cock for another few moments before finally slowing down and then stilling. 

They sat there—well, Derek sat, and Styles laid—for a few minutes, catching their breaths, and then Styles laughed. 

Derek tried not to tense up. 

“Not laughing at you,” Styles said, voice a little slurred, like he was on the edge of sleep. “Fuck. Goddamn, Derek.” Styles sighed happily. “Hmm. Can I get your number?”

“My—card number?”

“Phone number,” Styles corrected easily. 

“If I can ask you a question,” Derek said, suddenly bold. 

“Go for it.” Styles nuzzled into Derek’s chest. 

“Is your name Styles as in Harry Styles?”

The silence went on for long enough that Derek started fidgeting. 

“No,” Styles said after a moment. “No, it’s a nickname. My last name’s Stilinski. It’s spelled S-T-_I_-L-E-S.”

“You don’t like your first name?”

Stiles snorted. “It’s not that I don’t _like_ it, it’s that it’s almost unpronounceable. I’ve only known a couple people who could pronounce it. Even my dad can’t.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully. “If I can pronounce it, can I call you it?”

“I’m not helping you pronounce it,” Stiles said, but he sat up. “Phone. I’ll program it into your contacts.”

Derek handed over his phone easily, watching as Stiles tapped the keys easily. “Here.”

Derek took it back and frowned. “There’s a typo.”

“Nope,” Stiles said. “That’s spelled right.”

“How the hell are you named _Mieczysław_?”

Stiles stared at him. “What the fuck? How can you fucking pronounce that?”

Derek blinked. “I said it right?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, dude. You said it right. _How_?”

“I don’t even sort of know,” Derek said. “I think I like ‘Stiles’ better, though.”

“Thank fuck,” Stiles said, lying back down on top of Derek’s chest. “Naptime, by the way.”

“Of course.” Derek smiled, setting his phone down. 

It would be one hell of an expensive nap, but Derek was pretty sure it was worth it. 

He was pretty sure that _Stiles_ was worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos or a comment. 
> 
> _This work was inspired by @NihilistShiro's Kinktober prompt list, available here: https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872 _


End file.
